


Histoire de ma Vie

by AdorabloodthirstyKitty



Series: Class of '00 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty
Summary: Crowley is the college's most beloved late-night radio host, waxing poetic about a mysterious crush he only refers to as 'angel'. Azira Fell is an assistant librarian who prefers the company of books over most people, but the occasional personal ramble and pining for an unknown student over the radio is a welcome bit of company when he works late at night. And who wouldn't have a bit of a crush on the world's most enigmatic and romantic college radio host?A collection of moments in the winter of '98 involving an angelic librarian, a demonic radio dj, and their assorted friends, families, and acquaintances lucky enough to be stuck with them.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Class of '00 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559395
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	1. Antonia

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using prompts from [this fun advent prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189391982184/drawlight-drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for) by drawlight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Mistletoe  
> this chapter is based on my own au that I still haven't written yet. I'm not sure if every chapter will be set in the same universe but I guess we'll see!  
> this chapter was only supposed to be a couple hundred words :')

"Before I sign off on this absolutely abysmal Friday night, let me remind you all that the radio station is once again asking for your generous donations to keep us up and running!”

Crowley slipped his sunglasses on at the faint sound of a door down the hall, putting the scattered cassettes back into their spaces on the wall beside him.

“It's thanks to listeners like you that have kept me on the air and continue to do so, so unless you want to live a miserable, Crowley-less existence for the remainder of your college years, be sure to find our stunning assistant Miss Antonia and our slightly less stunning Newton Pulsifer tomorrow in and around the quad to make your donations! We take cash and cheques, and any amount is appreciated.” 

His voice grew quiet, more conspiratorial as he leaned closer to murmur into the mic.

“Though if you would like an extra incentive, I do hear Miss Antonia may or may not be armed with mistletoe tomorrow for our more generous donors.” He grinned, sitting back again as he all but yelled his last couple lines. 

“Happy holidays to you all, this is Crowley signing off with a song that always reminds me of this time of year. This is 4 Non Blondes, good morning, and I'll see you all again in approximately twenty hours."

Crowley shut off the mic, started up the cassette, and fell back into his chair, the frame creaking ominously at the dramatic display. He _had_ hoped to go out to one of the parties in or around the grounds this weekend, but holidays were peak donation season, so he would be bundling up bright and early tomorrow for some good old-fashioned missionary work to the church of St. Anthony. Was it heretical and a bit arrogant referring to the old radio station as a church dedicated to him? Perhaps. But if he was putting all his time and effort into keeping the place alive and not burning to ash in some sort of electrical fire incident, than he thought it more than fair to give himself some damn credit for it.

A sharp knock pulled him from his lounging, waving a hand toward the window behind him to allow whoever it was in. Bea slipped inside the booth, their usual scowl set firmly on their pale face, dark eyes dissecting him as he heaved himself up from the chair.

"And good morning to you too, Beelzebub. Excited for the charity drive?"

"I'll be more excited not to be electrocuted by this stupid hunk of metal," they murmured, glaring toward Old Reliable (which was most definitely old, but not so reliable). Crowley gave the old girl a loving pat, grabbing his scarf from the back of the chair as he buttoned the coat still hanging over his thin frame. They'd have to do some extra work to get the heater up and running again, but more legwork was a small price to pay if the alternative was freezing to death on the clock.

"Are you still on for next week? The listeners do love your sparkling personality."

"Unlike _some_ people, I happen to take my job seriously; I'll be there."

"I look forward to it! Until tomorrow, Beez."

Bea waved him off, plopping into the recently vacated seat and adjusting for height difference, their feet dangling as they brought the seat up as far as it would go. Crowley slipped out of the door as quietly as he could, standing back to watch Beez pull the giant set of headphones on over inky black hair and a thick wool beanie before heading for the exit, down a narrow hall and out into the frigid night air. He pulled his wool coat tighter against his frame, shivering as he hurried from the Music and Arts building toward the dorms, eager for a hot meal and a cozy night in.

-

Antonia Crowley was not a morning person, yawning hugely as she got ready for the long day ahead. She was thankful she’d missed out on the party last night after all; dealing with a hangover today would have been absolute hell, and she needed all the time she could get this morning to look her best and set up the booth for later in the day. She finished applying her makeup in the tiny mirror beside her bed, keeping the curlers in as she rifled through her trunk at the foot of the bed, pulling out some warmer clothes, a sweater, wool skirt, and stockings. It wasn't as trendy as her usual attire, but she had a feeling a certain librarian would appreciate the vintage look, smirking before dressing as quickly as she could without smearing her lipstick on the inside of the sweater. She shoved her feet into her heels, pulling the curlers out as she hopped on one foot and then the other, long fingers combing through brickred waves. She checked the time, pulled on her coat, scarf, and purse, and hurried out the door, hoping she wasn't late as she ran toward the quad.

She met Newt in the middle of the quad, the booth already set up, the sign rolled up and leaning against it. He gave her a jerky nod and nervous smile in greeting, shuffling a large stack of fliers he'd been sent to print earlier in the morning.

"I bet you're glad you're not on booth duty," Antonia grinned, Newt's cheeks going ruddy as he fumbled the papers in hand.

"Quite glad," he nodded, looking around before setting the stack down at the booth, Antonia setting her purse on top before they flew away. He turned to her, brows tilted up in worry. "You're sure you won't need any help? I'm not sure how many to expect at the booth, and I'll be here to pass out the fliers, but if you wanted a break or anything…"

"Newton, while your offer is admirable, I think you would faint before you kissed a single customer. Just make sure we get their money first, and pass out as many fliers as you can."

Newt nodded, sitting at one of two of the uncomfortable metal folding chairs behind the booth as Antonia hung the banner above it, shooing him away when he stood to help. Finally she tacked the mistletoe just beneath the banner and took her seat beside Newt, checking her makeup in her compact as they sat to wait for their first customers.

They waited a good twenty minutes before a pair of dark-clad men made their way toward the booth, Antonia not bothering to hide her grimace as Hastur and Ligur stopped in front of them.

"We won't be requiring your services, Antonia," Hastur murmured, Ligur taking the clipboard from Newt's hands and scribbling his name as he shoved a few crumpled notes into the empty jar in front of them.

"It's a kissing booth, Hastur, not a back alley quickie," Antonia huffed, rolling her eyes before Newt nudged her lightly. Antonia kicked him in the shin. "Thank you for your generous donations. I'm guessing Bea mentioned our little fundraiser?"

"As a matter of fact, they did," Ligur sneered, handing Hastur the clipboard as he, too, dropped a few pounds in the jar and scribbled his name on the near-empty donation list.

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to hear you stopped by," Antonia intoned, fixing them with the blankest face she could muster. They barely blinked, the bastards.

"Be sure to tell your friends," Newt piped in, handing Ligur a flier and breaking the silent glare-off Antonia was having with the two. Ligur looked at the paper in his hand as if it were covered in snot, shoving it into the pocket or his ill-fitting trench coat as they finally left. Antonia flopped back in her seat, already exhausted.

"How long are we stationed out here?"

"About four hours."

Antonia groaned, pitching forward and letting her forehead meet the plastic of the table with a dull _thunk_. It was going to be a long day.

-

It was getting close to the four hour mark, and Antonia was very much ready for the day to be over and done with. All throughout the day she had been watching for a familiar head of dandelion curls and gunmetal eyes, but it didn't appear that her favorite librarian was going to make it today. She huffed into her arms crossed beneath her chin, feeling disappointed and silly for having been disappointed at all. She didn't even know the library worker's name and she was pining like an idiot. It's not like he would have known she was there, and even if he did, what made her think he'd come? He probably had better things to do than to encourage her silly little infatuation.

She barely even noticed the dark green skirt come to a stop in front of the booth, and probably would have continued ignoring the customer if Newton hadn't started choking rather violently on his drink at the sight of her. Antonia turned, smacking his back with an open palm a couple times before turning to the customer, smiling up at Anathema as she grinned back at her.

"Hello, Miss Device. Come for a kiss from yours truly?" Antonia grinned, wiggling her eyebrows to make her friend laugh. Anathema shook her head, hiding her giggles behind a dainty hand as she signed her name on the full list, stuffing a few bills into the already packed donation jar.

"I'd be happy to receive one, though it won't be necessary. I'm sure my friend here would love one, though."

Before Antonia could ask who she was referring to she stepped aside, and Antonia's breath caught in her throat.

There stood her librarian in all his beige glory, shuffling nervously as he twisted a golden ring on his pinky, cheeks going pink when their eyes met. He swallowed, giving a nervous little wave before Anathema stepped back to pull him forward by the elbow, his bright eyes going wide as he stumbled toward the booth and right in front of Antonia, her words and higher brain function having left her as she simply stared up at the librarian she'd been hoping to see all day now.

Newt, having gotten his coughing under control, cleared his throat, pulling Antonia and the librarian from their staring contest, Antonia feeling warmth pool high in her cheeks as the librarian turned a delicious shade of pink.

"Would you be willing to donate and help us make repairs at the station? Every bit helps," Newt smiled, holding the clipboard out to the librarian, who took it with a short nod.

"Yes, of course," he murmured, and oh, his voice was lovely, Antonia thought, her heart swelling in her chest as he signed his name in elegant, looping cursive. He pulled a few crisp bills from an inside pocket of his coat, placing them on top of the stuffed jar before bright eyes met Antonia's again, flickering up to the mistletoe above her head as a blush colored his cheeks prettily. Newt nudged her ankle with his foot, jolting her from her dazed stupor enough for her to finally find her voice.

"Thank you for your generous donation," she murmured, her gaze still locked on bright eyes, picking out greens and blues along the irises as she tried to remember how to function. Before she lost her nerve she stood, leaning forward and pressing a short kiss to his cheek, his face immediately coloring as she pulled back with a small smile. He smiled back, a shy little curl of lips that made her want to lean forward and kiss him properly, but she refrained, smiling at the both of them as Anathema stepped beside him with a smug grin stretched across her pretty face.

"We were happy to help. We'll see you guys next week for the rest of the fundraiser, right?"

"Yes, we'll be here in the quad taking song requests and playing live in a few days," Newt informed her, Antonia thinking distantly that she was glad Newt was there to take over as her focus landed entirely on the perfect imprint of her lipstick left on the librarian's cheek.

"We'll be sure to visit. See you guys later," Anathema grinned, giving them both a pleasant little wave as she dragged her friend along behind her, his feet stumbling slightly before he seemed to regain some of his composure and followed along beside her. Antonia watched them go, eyes glued to the pair until they turned around the corner of one of the buildings and out of sight, leaving her feeling bereft. She sighed, a wistful, lovestruck thing as she fell back into her chair, Newt giving her a small smile as she smiled back dopily. Newt didn't tease her or say a word, and for that she was grateful. It looked like this was going to be the start of a very successful fundraising season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit absolutely goes to [AgentStannerShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper) for Crowley's name; I knew I wanted genderfluid Crowley but I had no idea what to name her until I read [The Sometimes Wife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20530484/chapters/48728987), which is hands down one of the best genderfluid representations in a fic I've read in a long time. thank you so much for the inspiration and for the amazing fic my dude, I hope you don't mind me using her name!


	2. Let It Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Snow

Snow days, in Azira's opinion, were some of the best parts of winter. He had no classes for the day and had taken refuge in the library, sitting at one of the tables with a small pile of books and a view into the sprawling courtyard below. The grounds were coated in a thick blanket of powder, a carpet of ice with sidewalks shoveled, leaving clear paths for those coming and going between classes. He paused his reading, watching as three figures walked beneath his window. They were all in dark colors, burgundy and navy and black, but the one that caught his eye was a tall figure with brilliant red hair. Immediately he thought of the beautiful girl at the booth, dark glasses and brilliant, fiery waves framing an angular, attractive face. He felt his cheeks warm with a blush, banishing the thought as he watched the one all in black detach from the group, making footprints in the snow as they left the sidewalk to walk through the still-falling snow. Azira frowned, confused, and watched as they black-clad figure turned on their heel, arms outstretched, and fell back into the snow, promptly fanning out long arms and legs to make a snow angel. Azira couldn't help but grin at the sight, thinking it rather sweet as the two other figures walked toward them, simply watching.

Eventually the person in black climbed up with the help of their friends, dusting off the snow clinging to their dark coat as the three continued on their way. Azira watched them go until he couldn't see them through the window any longer, his mind filled with fiery red hair and memories of making his own snow angels when he was young before turning back to the quiet company of his books.


	3. If It Takes Me All Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Nutcracker  
> chapter title comes from "A Night Like This" by The Cure

It was the first evening Crowley had had to himself all week, and he had mistakenly allowed Anathema to drag him out of bed and to the school's rendition of The Nutcracker. But because Anathema loved to torture him apparently, they were going to the play inspired by the ballet and not the actual ballet. For two hours Crowley sat with An to watch the story unfold, making a note never to allow Anathema to pick a show for them to watch ever again as long as it were performed by the school.

They stepped out at the intermission, Crowley having been shushed no less than five or six times throughout the two hour train wreck that was the play whenever he turned to Anathema to point out the absurdity of the production. They stepped out of the theater, heading toward the coffee shop for drinks as Crowley began his rant, gesticulating wildly as Anathema listened, trying and failing to hold back her laughter as they went.

"And it might not have been so bad if they hadn't made that sharp left into bloody _cannibalism_. Nothing gets me in the holiday spirit quite like war crimes and imperialism!"

"It was quite a bit less whimsical than the ballet version," Anathema agreed, trying and failing to hide her smile as Crowley continued, all but yelling as they entered the coffee shop with a pleasant tinkle of the bell above the door.

"And what was that love triangle between the nurse and the soldiers? What was the point? They all died and everyone was heartbroken, the end. Why even add that? Next time we go to a show, we're seeing something funny."

"I did hear _Much Ado_ was coming to town," Anathema murmured, though her focus had been drawn to the pastry display in front of them as they waited to make their orders. Anathema ordered for the both of them, getting three hot chocolates and a small bag of sweets. Crowley eyed the extra drink but said nothing, taking a sip of his own drink and rummaging in the bag for a brownie as they stepped back out into the cold, slush and snow crunching beneath their boots as they walked toward the rest of campus, the opposite direction of the theater.

Anathema caught his hand in hers again, already dragging him off somewhere else.

"Where are we going now?"

"The best place to hang out on campus."

Crowley frowned, confused for a moment before realization dawned on him, immediately trying to escape from Anathema's tight grip.

"An, no. No no no, I am _not_ going with you."

"Why not? It went pretty well the last time you saw him, and you won't ever be able to let him know how you feel if he never knows you exist."

" _Antonia_ kissed him, to him I'm probably just some fucking stranger. I'm not risking it, An, and you can't make me."

Anathema stopped again, dropping his hand as she whirled to face him in a wave of fanned out skirts and dark hair, impressed that the drinks hadn't flown out of their coaster with the force of it.

"Crowley. I've been watching you pine over Zira for weeks now; you'll never have a chance with him if he never meets you."

Crowley frowned, trying to ignore the name _Zira_ echoing in his head and making his stomach flip and heart flutter. He huffed, shoving one hand in his pocket as he clutched onto his drink with the other, curling into himself slightly at her penetrating stare.

"Who's to say I have a chance at all, An? Just because I like him doesn't mean anything will come of it, or that he'll like me, or that it'll work out even if he does."

Anathema was giving him a look that was far too amused for his liking, crossing his arms across his chest much like she had done during his little rant. Her smile only ticked higher on one side before she reached to grab his free hand again, already pulling him toward the library despite his meager excuses and slight tug of his hand.

"If you aren't comfortable talking to him yet I won't force you, but I don't want you hiding away from him, either. You can stay at the tables and study while I help shelve the books and bring him his treats."

"Or I could go back to my room and take a nap before my shift."

"You could. It's up to you Crowley, but I can't imagine anything bad coming from you being at the library. He'll probably be busy anyway, so you won't have to interact too much if you don't want to."

They made it to the front steps of the library, Anathema letting his hand go as she turned to him again, searching his face with those all-knowing eyes. He fidgeted slightly, shifting from foot to foot before she gave a firm nod and rummaged in the goodie bag to grab him a couple more brownies.

"Go on, I won't force you. Have a nap and have a good night, but think about what I said. I don't want you walking on eggshells because you have a crush on him. When you're ready, I can introduce you properly, but if you're not I'm not dragging you in there."

Crowley nodded, taking the food with a small smile. "Thank you, Ana. You have a good night, too."

Anathema smiled, giving a little wave before taking her treats and skipping up the steps and into the library, turning back to give him another smile before disappearing behind the huge double doors. Crowley sighed, checking his watch before making his way toward his dorm; after the events of the night, he could use a nap.


	4. Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Cranberry  
> chapter title taken from The Cranberries' album name  
> this chapter goes into some angst with feelings of rejection from a character w rsd, but don't worry y'all, everything will turn out alright in the end

The next day found Crowley standing in front of the front steps of the library at an ungodly eleven in the morning, pacing as he flip-flopped between mentally berating himself for being here at all and for not having gone in already.

He was trying (unsuccessfully) to go inside and introduce himself to Zira. Or that had been the plan, at least, before his stomach had seized with nerves and his internal monologue, usually varying from egotistical to self-loathing, had settled firmly on imagining every possible negative outcome that could take place if he stepped foot into the library.

Finally, after taking several deep breaths and reassuring himself that the worst that could happen would be embarrassing himself slightly, he squared his shoulders, skipped up the steps, and made his way into the library.

In all of his imaginary encounters with the object of his affection, Crowley had thought up a lot of wild outcomes. Walking in on Zira with another student leaning uncomfortably close, murmuring quietly into his ear, was not one of them. Crowley froze, his heart sinking as he deflated, unable to do anything but take in the image in front of him. He didn't know the boy talking to Zira, but he'd seen him before. Tall, dark hair, chiseled jaw and a confidence that was in no way an act. He'd always assumed he was straight, but maybe Crowley had been wrong.

He didn't allow himself to show any outward emotion even as his chest felt as though it were caving in, spinning around on his heel and stalking back out into the courtyard and straight for his dorm. He needed to be alone.

-

It had been a couple hours since the incident with Azira. In that time Crowley had laid in bed, head hanging off the end as he played "Linger" on repeat. Every time he closed his eyes he was immediately brought back to the library, his stomach clenching harshly at the proximity of Zira and the other student, heads bowed, words spoken quietly into white-blond hair.

He was too late. The one person he'd been seriously interested in and his fear had ruined it before anything had even begun. He would never get the chance to tell him how he felt, to get to know him properly, to have Zira learn about him. He didn't know whether to be angry at the dark-haired exchange student or jealous or angry at himself for being jealous or _what_ , but he felt as if he had gone through the gamut of negative feelings, settling on a depressed sort of acceptance as Dolores O'Riordan's soft croon settled over him like a blanket, her words ringing in his head like bells.

He barely noticed his door open, ignoring the intruder until a familiar face surrounded by a curtain of dark hair was standing above him, hands on hips and expression grim.

"What happened?"

Crowley sighed, not bothering to put his sunglasses on and hide his eyes, his expression; Anathema would always be able to read him like a damn book.

"I went to introduce myself this morning. Walked in on some guy flirting with Zira."

Anathema'a brows steepled, moving to sit at his side, a light hand brushing through his hair in comfort.

"I'm sorry, Anthony. Was Zira…"

_Interested? Flirting back? Reciprocating?_

"I don't know. Didn't get a good look; walked out before anything else happened. It seemed like he was just standing there."

Anathema went quiet, simply combing Crowley's hair back, giving comfort that he desperately needed.

Eventually the song ended, going on to the next on the cd. Crowley didn't bother changing it, rubbing cold hands over his eyes, dragging up through his hair.

"Come on, let's go back to mine and watch some movies. We'll have a proper sleepover, with enough horror movies and romcoms to make you sick."

Crowley felt the corner of his mouth curl up slightly at the suggestion, sitting up enough to meet Anathema's hopeful look before throwing his head back with a put-upon sigh.

"If you insist."

She grinned back, standing up to give him space to get up and ready before they both made the short walk to An's building and up to her dorm for a late night of slashers, romcoms, and sweets, Anathema curled up against him in quiet solidarity, a comfort he needed and the best friend he could ever ask for. And when he fell asleep, his best friend drooling on his shoulder, he knew that no matter what happened, he'd make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note: this is in no way making light of or making fun of people w rsd. sometimes things hit people differently, and what's uncomfortable or disappointing for some may be devastating for others. being rejected or feeling as if you've been rejected is hard, and it's ok to let yourself be sad, and to grieve what you may have lost, whether that be a relationship, a friendship, even something that seems small and insignificant. you're allowed to be sad, you're allowed to be disappointed, you're allowed to feel, and that doesn't make you any less strong. emotions aren't wrong, and you aren't wrong for feeling them  
> some information on rsd [here](https://www.depressionalliance.org/rejection-sensitive-dysphoria/)


	5. St. Anthony's Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Fire  
> sorry for the wait y'all!! had a bit of a family emergency so I've been out and without internet for almost a week. I'll try to catch up on these as quickly as I can. and thank you all for reading?? I'm still always blown away when anyone likes anything I write, so thank you for coming w me on this little adventure

An old bookshop in Soho.

Flames, high and hot as hellfire, turning centuries of history to ash, turning a human-shaped being into a puddle of misery on the floor, screaming his heart out for someone lost, someone precious.

This is not that story

This is the story of a church, the church of St. Anthony, cold as an icebox, the religion music, the hymns sung much better than the local choirs, within and outside campus grounds. And Anthony J. Crowley was their preacher, their saint, their prophet.

Perhaps he was using the religious metaphors a bit too heavily.

He sometimes got like this, introspective and stuck on quasi-heretical tangents. Quasi-religious? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was cold and tired, fingers barely able to bend at the frozen-stiff knuckles as the song ended, turning the volume down on Shirley Manson's lovely croon as it slowly faded out.

The portable heater so graciously provided by staff was barely warming his feet, and he ignored the impulse to kick the stupid thing into working order. Didn't want to start a damn electrical fire in the studio.

"And that was "Queer" by Garbage. Folks, this may be the end of dear old Crowley. If I don't freeze to death in this bloody icebox of a radio station sound booth I will die of fucking shock. To the art students braving it in these despicable conditions, and to everyone currently stuck in miserable, sub-zero weather and other hellish circumstances, I send you the best. This one's for you."

He switches the cassettes, swapping out Garbage for Nirvana and pressing play as he mutes his own mic, flopping back into the seat at his back with a rattle and ominous creak, adding a new chair into the ever-growing list of things to raise money for in the current fundraising campaign. Truth be told, the fundraising campaigns are almost constant, the repairs costly and the grants from the school few and far between. There probably wouldn't be a late night slot at all at the station if it weren't for Crowley, and there certainly wouldn't be half as many listeners.

He burrows further in his coat, crossing his arms over his chest as he tries to come up with more ideas to raise money. He can't let his staff (and by extension, himself) suffer through this torture, and if the bloody school would rather waste their money on sports then keep the art students from freezing to death, he can do his part to get enough money to help fix the heaters for the buildings. Maybe if all of the artsy groups banded together, did a fundraiser with the drama kids, music kids, the art kids as a whole…

Unfortunately, his idea doesn't fully form before a sudden small _fwoosh_ catches his attention, Crowley jumping to his feet and trying not to panic as he curses, whipping around to reach for the fire extinguisher beside the door.

The heater has officially given up the ghost in the form of a blessedly small fire. It's easy enough to extinguish, Crowley making sure the fire is completely out before unplugging the thing and pushing it out with the toe of his boot, hopping rather ungracefully on the other as he shoves it out of the booth and into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

He looks over the remnants of fire extinguisher goop on the floor, the only evidence of the incident as he sighs, throwing himself back into his chair as he pulls his headphones back on, listening to the song fade out, turning down the volume, and flipping his mic back on.

"My lovely listeners, your beloved host Anthony J. Crowley has just saved the station from imminent peril. As you may know, our lovely school board seems to think that paying for new bloody uniforms and equipment for the sports teams is more important than say, ensuring that the arts buildings are properly heated. As such, some of the staff have gone out of their way, more than likely using their own money, to provide the classes and rooms with small, portable heaters. Ours at the station, however, has just caught fire, leaving poor old Crowley and our dear Beelzebub to freeze. If you would like to donate to the cause of Not Allowing The Arts Students To Freeze To Death, the station is again asking for your generous donations to help with the cause. May even be planning something big for it; more on that when we've planned it out further. Here's the last one from me, it's "Fire in Cairo" by The Cure."

He starts the song and pulls off his headphones just as Beez slips into the booth, one eyebrow raised quizzically as they hold the door open, nodding their head toward the remnants of their only source of heat.

"Wasn't me, honest," Crowley says, lifting his hands, the universal sign of innocence. Beelzebub eyes him skeptically for a moment but doesn't comment.

"Any idea how we're going to replace it? Are we just getting another?"

"I may or may not be getting a brilliant idea. Need to do some asking around, brainstorming."

"I see."

"Trust me, it'll be brilliant. I'll tell you all about it once I've got a better grasp on the thing," he grins, slapping his hand down on Beez's shoulder in reassurance. Bea glowers at Crowley in a way that makes Crowley fear for the safety of his hand, quickly pulling it from Beelzebub's person and shoving both into his coat pockets.

"I'll keep you updated. Have a good morning."

Beez grunts, taking their place in the newly vacated seat as Crowley slips out of the room, shutting the door with a soft _click_. His eyes fall on the remains of the space heater, blackened in spots and covered in foam, before bundling it up in his arms to give it a proper burial in the dumpster out back.

He dumps the remains, shivering in the cold as he turns and hurries to his dorm to burrow in as many blankets as he can find while he brainstorms his fundraising project. And if he substitutes his usual ripped jeans and oversized shirts for oversized jumpers and warm flannel pants, cold feet shoved into thick wool socks, he doubts anyone would blame him.


	6. The Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Sleigh Bells  
> I'm trying to catch up on some of these so this one's short and sweet!

Crowley leaned against the door frame of the booth, letting Ligur finish reading over the college news, meeting Hastur's nasty sneer with a bright grin. He hadn't wanted to do this, pop in throughout the day, cut into everyone's time slots for the announcements. Specifically this time slot, squeezed into the back corner of the booth as Hastur and Ligur drone on. But Beez had been specific, and their glare left no room for dissension. Crowley fancied himself the big boss at the radio station, but Beelzebub was a tiny, combat-boot-clad force to be reckoned with. If he could avoid their wrath, all the better for him.

So here he was, squeezing between Hastur and Ligur after a song. Hastur moved the mic toward him, giving him his earphones as Ligur announced his arrival in a low drone, barely disguising his growl as he glared at Crowley.

Crowley grinned again, ringing the small strand of bells obnoxiously loud, being sure not to get them too close to the mic as Hastur and Ligur grimaced.

"Hello hello, one and all! Your favorite radio dj, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, comes to you to give this Special Radio Announcement. This month and this month only, the station will be holding a fundraiser for the station _and_ to repair the heating in the art buildings. So, next week the station will be having a live show in the quad, with Hastur, Ligur, Beez, and yours truly. We'll be taking requests, playing a few games, and asking for your generous donations to help us fix up the heating and equipment at the station. Thanks again to everyone who's already donated, and I'll see you all tonight on my regularly scheduled time! Ciao for now!"

Crowley handed back the headphones as Ligur moved the mic, doing a quick outro before putting a Bauhaus song on and shutting off the mic. Crowley gave the two one last grin, backing away slowly with a small wave of his hand.

"Well gents, it's been a blast. I'll see you both at the fundraiser!"

He reached back, opened the door, and ducked out into the hall before either could respond, the both of them giving him twin glares through the door's window before he hurried out the way he came, more than happy to be away from the two as he hurried to his next class.


	7. Radio Casanova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Silent Night

Crowley was just finishing his announcements at the start of his shift when every light flickered on beneath his hands. He paused, hands lifting from the console as something _zap_ -ed deep within the machine before every light flickered out, every display going dark. Inside his headphones there was no sound, even as he flipped switches and tried to send a message out to his audience.

Nothing.

Old Reliable had finally died on him.

He sighed, flopping back into his chair as he tried to think up a game plan. How the hell was he going to finish his shift? Where were the others going to broadcast when it came time for their shifts? He flopped forward, burying his head in his crossed arms with a groan.

He sat up again, looking over his setup before grabbing one of the old record crates near the door and grabbing cassettes from the wall. It looked like this show was going on the road.

He put as many cassettes into the crate that he could carry, putting his headphones on top of the pile just as the recording room door swung open, a slightly-flushed Newt hanging onto the door frame as he caught his breath.

"Crowley, heard the radio-" _gasp_ "-give out. I have-" _wheeze "-_ a solution."

Crowley blinked behind his glasses, surprised by the sudden entrance as he stood, hefting the crate up to carry against his hip.

"Well come on then, let's get a move on."

Newt gave a nod closer to a jerk than anything before ducking out of the way, letting Crowley out of the booth before leading him down the hall and out of the building.

"So what's your big plan, Newt? I sincerely hope you're not going to try repairing the thing tonight; we'll probably need a professional to come in," he muttered, shifting the crate to hold it in front of him.

"I've actually been working on something?"

Crowley's brows furrowed, intrigued but wary. If It was something technical or mechanical, there was a fifty-fifty chance the thing would catch fire, but for now it was his only option. He stayed quiet, letting Newt lead him away from the arts buildings and toward a set of dorms he didn't often visit.

Soon enough they were in an unassuming dorm room on the third floor, filled with tools, schematics, stray mechanical bits, a bed, a set of drawers, and a desk housing a microphone, headphones, and a small box fitted with a couple knobs, a slot for cassettes, and plugged into the wall, with the headphones and mic plugged into it. Crowley eyed the machine, then turned to Newton, who was watching his reaction nervously.

"I haven't had a chance to test it out much, but it should work. The mic and headphones probably aren't the best quality, but they work. This can just be a temporary solution until we get the station up and running again."

Crowley nodded, looking over the setup before bending to set the crate of cassettes beside the desk chair with a clatter.

He sat, pulling his own headphones from the crate and swapping them out with Newt's, setting the other set of headphones to the side as Newt leaned over his shoulder to fiddle with the knobs as Crowley adjusted the mic and grabbed a couple cassettes.

Crowley watched as Newt fiddled, eyeing a familiar display as a red needle moved toward their station's usual frequency. Silence.

Crowley didn't turn the mic on quite yet, sifting through the cassettes he'd taken out before plucking one up with a grin, taking it out of its case, and pushing it into the slot.

The first few chords of The Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" rang out, clear and loud, and Crowley could have whooped with joy. He grinned up at Newt, who's wide-eyed look turned into a small, nervous grin that quickly overtook his face. Crowley pulled the headphones off and put them over Newt's mess of brown waves, Newt's smile so wide it looked painful. Newton Pulsifer was the hero of the night.

The show would go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've been thinking about trying to catch up with all these December prompts before the new year, which is not a good idea, but here I am. probably won't be trying to write twenty-something prompts this afternoon but I'll get as much done as I can!


End file.
